


In this Feverish and Silly World

by sleepypercy



Series: Kerouac Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Public Sex, boys unrelated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam sits next to Dean on a bus. Conversation leads to dirty talk leads to hand jobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In this Feverish and Silly World

**Author's Note:**

> This fic inspired by [The Great Sex Letter](), written by a friend of Jack Kerouac who wrote _On the Road_. Fair warning: John is a cockblocker.  
>  Much love to [cosmonaught](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmonaught/pseuds/cosmonaught) for beta.

The Greyhound station was colder than a witch’s teat, and Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pocket, trying to keep his fingers from turning any bluer. The damn bus was late, and although Dean didn’t have any particular timeframe he had to keep to, he also didn’t want to have to sit in the bus depot freezing his nuts off any longer than necessary. It was already bad enough that he was being forced to take public transportation in the first place without also losing all feeling in his extremities. And fuck, some of those extremities were important.  
  
Eventually, the bus arrived with a snort of dust and engine smoke that had Dean becoming mildly aroused. Something about engines and cars always did that to him. His first fuck had happened in the middle of his dad’s salvage yard, in the back seat of a beautiful ’68 Dodge Charger, and just the smell of engine oil and grease was enough to ramp up his blood flow.  
  
It was late and dark, and Dean planned on sleeping through most of the bus ride. Hooking his bag’s strap in his ankle, he leaned his head into the edge of his headrest and tried to sleep. When the Greyhound stopped in Nebraska to switch out passengers, Dean blearily opened his eyes, hoping the seat next to him would stay free despite the dwindling vacancies around him. The bus wasn’t even close to being full, but a few rows were now doubling up. For a while it seemed like Dean would be able to keep his privacy in the back. But then the last passenger came onboard, ducking underneath the door and filling up the entryway with what was definitely well over six feet of height and a solid edge of muscle all around.  
  
He had to be in his teens. Dean pegged him as eighteen, maybe still in high school, although the school year was almost over. His long, brown hair was swept across his forehead in temptingly soft strands, and Dean found himself holding his breath when the kid looked across the aisle, eventually landing his gaze on the empty seat right next to Dean.  
  
Pulling his backpack close, the boy shuffled towards the back of the Greyhound, flashing Dean a set of dimples as he asked if the seat was taken.  
  
“No-o.” It was supposedly one syllable, but Dean managed to stumble over it, his tongue heavy like he’d been drinking. Smiling even more warmly, the boy shrugged his backpack off and crashed into the seat with a sigh, obviously tired himself.  
  
“I’m Sam,” he said, turning to face Dean. But Dean’s mind was already reeling off ways to make up for that botched first word, and what it came up with involved Dean shrugging and turning his head away, feigning indifference.  
  
Sam seemed a little surprised but just shrugged and left Dean alone. Pulling out a book from his bag, he started to read. After a quick, covert glance to the side, Dean caught the title: _On the Road_. It didn’t mean anything to Dean, although Sam seemed to be enjoying it since he spent the next couple of hours engrossed in its pages.  
  
Dean knew from the first moment his eyes had landed on the guy that he had to know how those ridiculously long legs would feel wrapped around his body. But Dean only had so much time until one of their stops came up, so he had to do this just right.  
  
After two hours of planning (and sweating) in silence, Dean turned to Sam and started talking, letting whatever he wanted spill out of his mouth as if they’d known each other all their lives.  
  
“You ever think about how completely unaware most of the world is?” he asked, tone casual as he launched into quick conversation. “And maybe it’s not anyone’s fault that they get to stay warm and safe inside their beds, but there’s so much out there that can hurt and crush and kill, and only a small part of the population ever has to face that.”  
  
 “You mean like the armed services?” Sam asked, looking confused but interested as he shut his book.  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Dean allowed, catching something in the boy’s look that made him ask: “You know someone enlisted?”  
  
“My dad was. Marines.”  
  
Dean nodded. “Not everyone can handle all that blood and ugliness. But hell, sometimes I think regular civilians ought to get a tiny glimpse of what’s out there, just so they can appreciate what they don’t have to fight.”  
  
Then, before Sam could voice the puzzlement so clear on his face, Dean surged through a few more topics—like how he never thought of home as a place. Places weren’t important, people were. Houses could burn down, cities could be destroyed, wood and plaster could decay or crack, but personally, Dean never felt the need to really own a lot of things. He never cared about that shit. All he needed was to know where the people he cared about were, and then he knew he had a place in the world.  
  
The conversation was fluid and open with no specific destination. At some point, Sam explained what his bus trip had been about: visiting potential college options. His first choice was Stanford, but he’d checked out a couple in Colorado and one in Nebraska during his trip to and from the coast.  
  
“You one of those straight-A, Mathlete-nerd geniuses?” Dean commented with a wry grin. The kid flushed and rolled his eyes at Dean’s mocking tone.  
  
“Well, I’m not an idiot,” he answered, maybe a bit defensively. “My mom and dad are kinda hoping I’ll go on to law school.”  
  
“ _Damn_ , Sammy… you’d look like candied sin in a monkey suit,” Dean remarked, winking so there was no mistaking his intentions. He let his eyes rove up and down the boy in blatant appreciation. And even though it was a _line_ , Dean had to say it because it was true: “Although I wager you’d look even better out of it.”  
  
While Sam blushed and gaped mutely, caught completely off-guard, Dean started talking about his day job repairing cars and the satisfaction of getting his hands dirty. And although the kid didn’t know a lot about automotive work, he was no stranger to general maintenance and repair.  
  
“Spark plugs are easy, though,” Dean informed Sam with a wicked glint in his eye. “ _Everyone_ should know how to change those. Depending on your model, it doesn’t take too much time or work, either. You just crank out the spark plugs with a socket wrench, easy as pie. Grab your new plug and fit your gapper inside—make sure it’s sized just how you need it.” Dean’s hand slid across his own leg, touched the edge of Sam’s, and he saw the boy’s throat working as he swallowed. Dean’s voice took on a deep, rumbling intensity as he continued to explain in a slow, languid voice.  
  
“After that, you get some anti-seizing lube and coat it on the spark plug, spreading that lube around the threads and slicking ‘em up real good. Get it all nice and wet so you can slide it in and out of the head, easy as anything. So when you grab your tool to tighten and push that plug in, it’s a smooth ride, slipping down like it was surrounded by melted butter and snugs up inside all warm and cozy.” Laughing, Dean winked again and asked: “You wanna try? Think you’re up for it, kid?”  
  
“ _Dean_.” Sam cheeks were flushed pink, and his voice came out a little strained. Dean didn’t even remember telling the boy his name, but he must have dropped the information sometime in the past hour. “What’re you—”  
  
“You ever fuck in a car?” Dean interrupted, eyes creased in delight. His hand was all the way on Sam’s leg at this point, and the kid didn’t look like he had any intention of moving away. “My first time was in the backseat of one, both of us dirty and greasy from working all day. We were changing out some shocks and brake pads. The front of the car was mounted up on jacks; the tires still pulled off. And when I started pounding into Ryan’s ass, we could feel the car shaking—feel the jack stands rocking—and I was worried that we’d bring the whole car crashing down. But I wouldn’t have stopped fucking that sweet ass for anything.”  
  
“ _Dean_.” Sam had moved his whole body closer, squeezing himself right next to Dean with his eyes large and pleading. And when Dean’s fingers slid around Sam’s leg, drifted down and felt the thickening bulge there, he knew his plan had worked—and _damn_ , had it worked—perfectly.  
  
“You getting all hot and bothered, Sammy?” Dean inquired, brushing his thumb lightly across Sam’s crotch.  
  
“Yeah, I—” Sam suddenly seemed to remember where they were, and his head snapped up to look around their dim surroundings.  
  
“It’s one in the morning.” Dean chuckled and moved his mouth closer to the boy’s ear. “Everyone’s either asleep or minding their own business. Nobody’s even noticed us.” Then, just because it was there, Dean let his lips drag humid trails across the shell of the boy’s ear. Sam’s groan was soft and low, and he turned to look at Dean, desire glazing his eyes.  
  
“Dean, let me…”  
  
But Dean liked being in control too much, and he shushed Sam with a firm kiss, moving his lush mouth against Sam’s, demanding that the boy open up so Dean’s tongue could press and slide and fuck everything past those soft, pink lips. However, Sam was a lot more impudent than he’d originally given him credit for, and he soon pulled back, moving to pant into Dean’s ear:  
  
“Let me blow you. Please. Wanna do it so bad.”  
  
Laughing, Dean responded, “Gonna have to slow your roll, tiger. I have bigger plans for you. What do you say we find a place at the next stop and do this right?”  
  
“ _Can’t_.” Sam’s voice was whining. “Our next stop is in Lawrence, Kansas. Home. My dad’s meeting me there.”  
  
“Then how ‘bout we ditch the old man?” Dean caught the boy’s soft earlobe in his mouth, gently sliding it between his teeth. “I’ll bring you back in an hour—maybe two—and you can tell your dad you missed a bus change, had to take a later one.”  
  
“I don’t…” Sam was still breathing hard, obviously having trouble thinking. “I… okay. Sure, okay, Dean. Unless he’s waiting for me right outside those doors, we’ll do that.”  
  
“Good answer,” Dean said approvingly, pulling Sam closer and nipping his way across the boy’s jaw line. “In the meantime, we’ve still got an hour to kill.”  
  
By the time Dean’s mouth returned to Sam’s, he’d managed to unzip the kid’s jeans and scoot them down just enough so he could reach in and get a good grip on Sam’s throbbing cock. It was already leaking heavily. The fluid was sticky between Dean’s fingers as he started rubbing around the head and jacking the shaft. When he felt Sam reach out to slide a hand into his own lap, Dean grinned in pleasant surprise at the boy’s boldness. Sam’s hands were practiced, and they had Dean unzipped and out in less than ten seconds, which still wasn’t soon enough for Dean. He’d been straining against the chafing jean fabric for almost an hour now, and holy _shit_ it felt good to have Sam finally ease that tension.  
  
It didn’t take either of them very long, their hips pumped into the other’s hold and Sam ended up breathing heavily into Dean’s neck and eventually clamping his mouth onto Dean’s shoulder as he tried to muffle his pants and whines. After just a few minutes of squeezing, sliding, and kneading, they were both gasping and staining the inside of their shorts. It was enough for the moment, though they both still craved something a little more fulfilling.  
  
When the bus rolled into the next stop, Sam leaned over Dean to peer out the window, squinting in the dark and looking for his father. He didn’t see anyone, and he and Dean went out the front of the bus, both of them giddy and relieved and ready to make a run for it. They weren’t more than twenty feet from the bus, however, when they heard a low voice ring out:  
  
“Sammy! Over here!”  
  
They paused, disappointment thick as blood and pooling in their bellies, and turned to see Sam’s father walking away from the restrooms and towards the pair.  
  
“Hey, uh, Dad.”  
  
Guilt was splotched all over the boy’s face, and Dean knew there was no way he was taking Sam with him tonight. Not with the way his father was already scrutinizing him suspiciously.  
  
“Who’s your friend?” The man frowned, his eyes studying Dean in disapproval.  
  
“This is Dean. We, uh, met on the bus. We were actually hoping to maybe grab a bite to eat, hang out for a little while before he has to catch the next ride.” They were the right words—casual and neat—but Sam’s darkening cheeks and the stutter in his voice betrayed him.  
  
If looks could kill…. The older man glared at Dean as if daring him to just _try_ and make off with his son, to give Sam’s father a reason to put a bullet in Dean’s brainpan.  
  
“I don’t think so.” The man’s voice was firm, and he grabbed Sam’s arm. “I’ve been waiting here—freezing my ass off—for half an hour. We’re going home. There’s no way you’re going off with some stranger you just met on a bus.”  
  
“But Dad!”  
  
“No buts, son. Besides, if you don’t come home now, you’ll have your mother worried.” Sam’s father started pulling Sam away, and when Sam looked at Dean, they exchanged helpless looks. _Dammit, there was no escaping the bastard._  
  
“Okay, fine,” Sam growled, wrenching his arm away and throwing his father an angry look. “Just let me say goodbye.”  
  
It was awkward, but Sam stuck out his hand, his expression regretful. “Sorry, man,” he said and dropped his voice low to add: “If you’re ever in town again, or in the Stanford area, look me up. Sam Winchester.”  
  
“Sure,” Dean answered, lips pressed tight with frustration and disappointment.  
  
Within the span of five minutes, Sam was tucked into his father’s car (a fucking _gorgeous_ ’67 Chevy Impala that the man did _not_ deserve) and gone, and all Dean was left with was shit ton of pent-up sexual frustration and a small note that Sam had tucked into his hand during their handshake. When he opened it up, he found the boy’s phone number and address written inside in careful ink.  
  
Dean was almost tempted to crumple up the note and throw it away, but he knew he’d regret that later. Right across from the bus depot was a bar, and Dean counted his lucky stars that there were still a couple of hours until closing time.  
  
He needed a drink.  
  
Or twelve.  
  
Now.


End file.
